Prado meanwhile was searching for Rendle, finally catching sight of him on the left flank, leading the battle between his mercenaries and Haxus regulars against Owel’s troops. Owel had not had time to charge, and the impact of Rendle’s assault had forced back her formation. Prado checked one more time to make sure Freyma had things under control in the center, then raised his sword and spurred his horse into a canter. His veterans formed a line on his left. As soon as it was straight, he lowered his sword and they charged, hitting the enemy just as Owel’s force was on the verge of fleeing.
Prado swung at any head that came within reach, but concentrated on bringing his line right behind Rendle’s force. He saw Rendle realize what was happening and trying to wheel his cavalry around to meet the new threat. Prado screamed his name, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and charged again.
Even though Sal’s force was outnumbered two to one, the charge of her troops had sent the enemy reeling in shock. In a few minutes they had cut down a quarter of them and divided their force in two. The rear half turned and fled the field while the vanguard, knowing they had no hope of regaining the initiative here, spurred their horses to even greater effort and desperately tried to reach the main battle in the hope they could find reinforcements. Sal quickly ordered a company to chase the fleeing riders to make sure they did not double back and take her force in the rear, then reformed her line and pursued the vanguard.
They had almost caught the enemy’s tail when both groups burst into the valley. There were dead horses and riders everywhere. Sal quickly saw the battle had developed into two main struggles—one on the far flank and one in the center. The enemy she was chasing saw that the only hope they had was to get involved in one of the larger actions, and charged straight into the flank of the recruits in the center.
The recruits, who had just gained the upper hand, fell back in confusion. Freyma desperately tried to steady the line, but there were too many gaps. The archers tried to flee, but many were cut down.
Then Sal struck the enemy’s rear and the battle broke up into skirmishes between four or five combatants and in some places individual contests. Freyma gathered together all the recruits he could and formed a new line just in front of their camp. The surviving archers, seeing what he was trying to do, formed up behind him. Sal saw as well and started calling her own riders back. The enemy was exhausted and their horses blown; their leader tried to get them to form a line as well, but they were too slow. Arrows started falling among them, scattered and largely ineffective but demoralizing nonetheless, and they started to pull back through the stakes to safer ground, and there they were rejoined by their comrades retreating from the battle on the left flank. They knew they had lost, but they also knew their opponents were too tired to pursue. Some among them were crying for another charge, but they were shouted down; for most of them, it was clear that the battle was over.
All the pain, all the planning, all the waiting, were made worthwhile when Prado saw that Rendle recognized him. The man turned whiter than a sheet, cursed Prado, and charged toward him.
It seemed as if all the fighters there knew to avoid this contest and peeled away. The two leaders met at full gallop. The flank of Rendle’s horse crashed into the head of Prado’s mount, but even as his horse went down, Prado felt his sword strike flesh. He landed heavily, somersaulted, and staggered back to his feet. His horse lay on the ground, its neck broken. Rendle wheeled his horse around and charged again, raising his sword high. Prado stood his ground and blocked his enemy’s slashing attack. As Rendle barged past, Prado grabbed hold of his jerkin and pulled down savagely. Rendle shouted as he lost his balance, his torso twisting back over his horse’s hindquarters, and used his thighs and knees to remain mounted. Prado saw his chance and swiped savagely with his sword. His blade sliced into his enemy’s neck. Rendle gasped, coughing blood; his horse reared and bolted, the sudden action forcing Prado’s blade deeper. Rendle’s head jumped off his neck, and his horse galloped on, its decapitated rider slowly sliding off the saddle; one foot caught in the stirrup and the torso bumped along the ground as it was carried away.
Prado heard a groan, and realized it came from his own lips. He looked down and saw a deep slash in his right thigh, blood oozing over his breeches. He looked up again and saw Rendle’s head not far from him. He stumbled over to it and used his sword to impale it through the neck. He raised the grisly trophy over his head and waved it in the air, shouting his victory for everyone to hear.
First, it was only the enemy riders nearby that cried in despair and fled, but it was enough. In a few minutes the slopes were occupied only by Prado’s troops. They watched as the enemy gathered and milled about two hundred paces north of the stakes, unsure of what to do, wary of any pursuit, but Prado knew his own side was too exhausted to follow. Some of the enemy turned their horses and kicked them into a slow trot, and soon the rest of them were following.
Freyma rode up. “Shall we start the chase?”
“Have we any fresh horses?”
Freyma shook his head.
“Our casualties?”
“Moderate. Maybe four hundred dead, twice that many wounded. I figure two thousand of the enemy are dead or wounded here. Sal says there are at least three hundred of them dead on the other side of the hills to the east.”
“Kill any of their wounded left behind.”
Freyma left to carry out the order, and Prado looked to the retreating enemy again. They were now half a league away. He counted a thousand or so, many of them slumped over their saddles. They were leaderless and at least two weeks from sanctuary; many of them would not see their homes again.
He searched among his own troops. They were worn out, but he still had enough to carry out his first mission. He raised his sword again, peered at Rendle’s bloody face and grinned at it. “I was just going to cut your throat, you bastard.” He laughed crazily.
And now for Lynan, he thought.
That was when he heard the screams of dying men in the distance. His first thought was that some of Sal’s riders had come late on the field and pursued the retreating enemy after all. He looked up and what he saw did not make any sense. The enemy were riding as hard as they could, but toward Prado and his troops!
“God’s death, what’s happen—”
“Prado!”
He spun around to his left and looked up the slope. There, standing as free as you please, and grinning from ear to ear, was the blasted barge pilot.
“You sent me into a trap!” Prado shouted at him. He shook Rendle’s head at him. “And see what has come of it!”
“That was not my trap, master!” the Chett replied. He spread his arms wide. “This is my trap!”
And suddenly the barge pilot was no longer alone. It seemed as if the skyline itself was changing shape, turning into a line of cavalry that stretched along the whole length of the valley.